Chapter 4: Blood Under the Bleachers
It rained the night Tyler died.
Not a thunderstorm—just a steady, icy drizzle that made everything feel quiet, like the world itself was holding its breath.
The football field at Saint Delores High was empty. Practice had ended an hour ago, and the team had cleared out, leaving behind muddy cleats, sweaty towels, and clouds of steam rising from the turf. The stadium lights cast eerie shadows under the bleachers.
Shams waited in those shadows.
He had been waiting for forty-three minutes, motionless, crouched behind a rusted support beam beneath the stands. The cold metal seeped through his jeans, but he didn't mind. He'd learned to wait in silence back home—waiting for animals to step into traps, for birds to come to the bait.
Now he waited for a different kind of prey.
Tyler's voice broke the silence, loud and cocky, talking into his phone as he walked toward the locker room.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there. Just gotta grab my bag. Mom's flipping out again, whatever. She can wait."
Shams reached into his backpack. Gloved hands pulled out a length of heavy pipe wrapped in black duct tape. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't clean. But it was quiet.
He exhaled slowly.
Tyler turned the corner, headed toward the back entrance of the gym building. That's when he saw Shams.
At first, Tyler blinked like he didn't recognize him.
Then: "Yo, are you serious? What are you doing out here, Shampoo?"
Shams didn't answer. He stepped forward.
"Dude. It's raining, and you look like a horror movie. You good?"
Shams moved fast.
The pipe connected with Tyler's left knee. The boy screamed, falling sideways into the mud.
Before he could rise, Shams struck again—this time across the back of his skull. A crack echoed under the bleachers.
Tyler twitched.
Shams stood over him, breathing steady.
There was no hesitation. No screaming from Shams. No rush of emotion. Just silence.
He knelt beside Tyler's body, pulled a cloth from his pocket, and wiped the handle of the pipe. Then he placed it back in his backpack.
He dragged the body behind a row of bleachers, hiding it beneath loose tarps and practice equipment. The mud and rain would wash away the footprints. He knew Tyler's bag was still in the locker room—so it would look like he never even made it to the field.
Before leaving, Shams did one last thing.
He reached into Tyler's jacket pocket and took his phone.
Not to steal it. Not to keep it.
He opened the camera.
And took a picture of Tyler's body—face-down in the dirt, blood pooling near his ear.
Shams stared at the photo for a moment.
Then he smiled.
The next morning, the school buzzed with whispers. Tyler never made it home. His mother had called the police. Search dogs combed the area.
By mid-afternoon, they found the body.
Principal Ramirez announced a moment of silence. Students cried in the hallways. Teachers hugged each other. Someone started a memorial near Tyler's locker—flowers, candles, a photo from sophomore year.
Shams walked past it on the way to class.
He paused.
Looked at the photo.
And smiled—just a little.
Then he kept walking.
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